


Maybe in Magazines

by anr



Category: Stargate Atlantis RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-10
Updated: 2008-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-23 04:12:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pattern is uncanny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe in Magazines

**Author's Note:**

> SOUNDTRACK: "Umbrella" (Mandy Moore)

  


* * *

  


_gonna let the rain pour_  
 _i'll be all you need and more_

  


* * *

  


Three months, two weeks, a day and some odd hours and minutes after his family returns to Los Angeles, Joe opens his front door to find Torri standing on his step.

It's raining, the storm front the weather bureau had predicted having hit an hour or so earlier, and he has to hold onto the door to stop it from slamming in the wind.

"I forgot my umbrella," Torri says, pushing wet strands of hair off her cheek, and he nods like that explains everything.

"I have towels," he says.

Lightning flashes; he lets her inside.

  


* * *

  


She stays for two days and two nights, doing god only knows what while he's on set during the day. Nobody else from work seems to know she's in town, and he never thinks to ask _why_ she's here because he's always too surprised when he gets home each night and finds her still _there_.

"I keep thinking I'm asleep," he admits as they eat chinese takeout in his living room, Cash playing on his stereo and thunder echoing outside. "This year..." He shakes his head, almost laughs. "I keep expecting to wake up and find things like they were before."

(Before everything changed. Before everyone left.)

Smiling, Torri leans over and steals his fortune, palming the scrap of paper before he can read it. "Maybe we're both asleep?"

As good an answer as any. He smiles. "Maybe."

  


* * *

  


Torri leaves with the storm, already gone when he wakes up on his sofa, his shoulder aching from where he's slept on it funny and a bitter aftertaste in his mouth from the wine they were drinking.

He doesn't bother looking for evidence of her stay here. He already knows he won't find any.

  


* * *

  


Work, eat, sleep, see his family, then lather, rinse, repeat. He finds it strange that the only real difference between his life now, and his life last year, is that he's accumulating frequent flyer miles at a much greater rate these days.

"I could set my watch by you, man," says Jason, idly throwing punches as they wait for their director du jour to finish arguing with the lighting crew. "Don't you ever miss a beat?"

(Once, not long after they first started filming the show, Torri spent an entire day poking him in the back every time she saw him. It was irritating, and childish, and he had bruises all along his spine by midday, because he was never quite quick enough at moving out of her reach.)

Standing exactly on his mark, gun already in hand, Joe shrugs.

  


* * *

  


Torri's second visit is as unexpected as her first, his only warning a knock on the door just as he was about to go to bed. (He thought it was thunder at first, thought about ignoring it even if it wasn't.)

"Looks like rain," she says in his kitchen, unwinding the scarf wrapped around her neck.

"Looks like Vancouver," he says, and hands her a coffee.

"Mmm." Her cheeks and nose are pink from the wind and for a long moment she simply holds the mug to her lips, breathing in the steam. "Haven't missed that."

 _What_ have _you missed?_ he wonders. "Hungry?"

She smiles. "Always."

  


* * *

  


He makes her scrambled eggs and toast, and they eat at his breakfast counter, side by side on the stools Kath picked out after they bought this house. He thinks this might be the first time he's ever sat on one of them for longer than ten minutes.

The clock above his stove is telling him that it's past midnight and gusts of wind are rattling his kitchen window.

"I have a six am shoot tomorrow," he says when they've finished eating, when she's finished telling him about her latest auditions. "'Jumper scene."

Torri reaches over and steals his plate, stacking it on top of hers. "Go," she says, "I'll clean up."

Halfway to the door he stops and turns back; watches her walk towards the sink with their glasses. "You know you don't have to do that, right?"

She waves him away. "I want to," she says, and smiles. "Goodnight, Joe."

 _Please don't leave_ , he thinks. "Goodnight, Torri."

Outside, it starts to rain.

  


* * *

  


He almost sleeps through his alarm, waking with less than thirty minutes to get himself from home to the lot, but the door to his guest room is ajar and he stands there for five long minutes, caught by the smooth curve of her shoulder, just visible above the edge of the covers, and the way her hair spreads across the pillow.

He makes himself walk away.

  


* * *

  


Kath boxes up some of the boys baby clothes for him to give to Rachel and he takes them round to her place on his way home from the airport.

"Joe, these are adorable!" she says, examining the little hat and romper set that Torri gave them just after Gus was born. It looks brand new still. "Are you sure you guys won't need this all again?"

He nods. "I'm sure."

  


* * *

  


Torri visits again and again, arriving on his doorstep each time it storms. He's never quite sure if she's following the rain -- or the rain is following her -- but the pattern is uncanny.

(He can't say he minds.)

"We circled for two hours before landing," she says one Tuesday night, curled up in the corner of his lounge. "For awhile there I thought they were going to reroute us to Seattle."

"Wind?"

She nods. "And lightning. The turbulence was like a roller coaster gone bad."

It's always temperate skies when he flies to LA; he's yet to be delayed once.

"I like roller coasters," he says, smiling, and she huffs out a tired laugh.

"Yeah, I know." Closing her eyes, she smiles and sinks further into the cushions. "Me too."

  


* * *

  


He already has plans for his Wednesday night, has promised to make an appearance at Aqua for James' birthday drinks. He invites Torri along when he ducks home to get changed, but isn't that surprised when she declines.

"Thanks, though," she says, waving him away as she sits on his lounge room floor, scripts spread about her. (He's pretty sure some of them are his.) "You can give me all the highlights when you get home."

Providing _she's_ still here. The weatherman on the radio when he was driving home said the storm front was beginning to dissipate.

"Hey, Tor --" _Come with me. I won't go._ She looks up expectantly when he pauses for too long. "I'll see you later."

She smiles. "Have fun."

  


* * *

  


Two drinks and a plate of chicken wings later, he makes his excuses and heads home. It's no longer storming, per se, but there's enough of a drizzle to give him hope.

Torri's exactly where he left her, a script now on each knee and a bottle of beer in her hand. She grins when he walks in.

"Here," she says, tossing him a script. "What do you think?"

He grins back. "Looks good," he says, and joins her on the floor.

  


* * *

  


He's pretty sure David knows that Torri's been visiting him, on and off over the past few months, even though none of them have ever mentioned it.

"Email from one Ms Higginson," David announces loudly, walking onto the set with a printout clutched in his right hand. "She says -- and I quote -- we're all a bunch of amateur hacks who can't act their way out of a paper bag --"

"Hear, hear!" says Jason.

"-- and that we should all tune in to NBC on Friday night, seven pm, for her latest dog food commercial."

Everyone laughs and then Martin is there, asking everyone to take their places. When David brushes past him to get to his mark, he presses the piece of paper into his hand, and Joe glances at it quickly while the sound guys do one last check on the mikes. 

_PS. Tell Joe the forecast for LA this weekend looks bad._

  


* * *

  


Kath no longer collects him from the airport -- says it's too much of a hassle getting the boys in and out, and he agrees -- so he doesn't bother looking for a familiar face when he leaves the gate, just heads straight out of the terminal.

It's raining heavily outside, almost a downpour, and he shrugs his carryall a little higher on his shoulder as he stands just away from the doors and breathes in the wet, smoggy air. To his right, the taxi queue seems even more endless than usual; he wonders how hard it would be to justify a car hire for two days.

"Need a ride?"

Almost four million people in Los Angeles alone; he likes to think he could recognise her voice out of ten times that number.

"Yeah," he says, looking up and smiling, "I do."

  


* * *

  


Two blocks from the airport, he reaches over and covers her hand on the gear shift with his own.

Five blocks from his house, she slows to a stop at an intersection and looks at him. "Left or right?"

He's been trying to figure out the answer to that question for longer than he cares to admit. Tightening his grip on her hand, he meets her gaze steadily. "Right."

He'll call Kath later.

  


* * *

  


He spends the night on her couch, her body pressed up against his as they watch some HBO special on curing cancer -- or maybe the causes of it? he's not really sure, not really paying attention -- and the storm echoing outside.

Torri drops him off at noon the next day, the sun forcing its way through patches of cloud and smog. He can see a rainbow on the skyline, its smooth arch broken by skyscrapers.

Kath answers the door with Gus on her hip and her sketching pad under her other arm, a pencil sticking out of her braid. When he takes Gus from her, he can hear Tru and Aidan squabbling over a video game in the den.

"The plane was delayed," he says, stepping inside.

She heads off towards the kitchen. "I didn't ask."

  


* * *

  


Peter catches him on his way to makeup, a half-read script under one arm and his sunglasses in his hand. It's been sunny the past fortnight, the weather remarkably calm for Vancouver.

"Just thought you should know," Peter says, "Torri turned us down again."

He doesn't quite miss a step, but it's close. "Are you sure?"

Peter nods. "Got the word last night. Bummer, eh? Would have been a hell of an arc."

"Yeah." Peter veers away to the left, leaving him to continue on to makeup alone. "Yeah."

  


* * *

  


The storm is vicious, the pleasant weather of late a dim memory as his lights flicker with every third lightning strike.

"I don't get it," he says, frustration colouring his tone, "why?"

She stands on the opposite side of his kitchen, arms crossed and expression unreadable. "What's not to get? I didn't want it."

"But it was an ten episode arc! With plans to continue it on!"

"So what?"

"So what -- it was your chance to come back!"

Her jaw drops. "Who the fuck said I _wanted_ to come back? I _chose_ to leave, remember?"

His turn for incredulity. "But I thought -- I mean, isn't that why you're _here_? Why you keep showing up?"

Her face changes expressions too rapidly for him to identify them all, but her tone is unmistakably icy when she speaks. "You're a fucking idiot."

Lightning flashes and takes the lights with it.

His front door slams a moment later.

  


* * *

  


It takes him fifteen takes to get out three lines of dialogue.

He misses his mark and Jase's right hook gives him a bruise that lasts a week.

Rain every day for a month straight and he stays in town, telling his kids that he's caught up at work, but there's no knock on the door.

She was right.

  


* * *

  


"I'm a fucking idiot."

The sun is hot on the back of his neck, sweat trickling down his spine, but he forces himself not to move as he stands on her front step.

"You are," she agrees. For a long moment she just looks at him. Then, "do you know _why_?"

His bag hits the ground as he steps forward, one hand sliding around her waist and his other finding her neck, fingers slipping back and up into her hair. "I know why." 

He kisses her. Kisses her like he's wanted to for longer than he can remember -- since before his divorce even -- her lips parting beneath his and his tongue slicking against hers. Her arms wind around his shoulders, pulling their bodies flush together, and he feels a bolt of heat shoot through him that has nothing to do with the weather.

When he pulls back, he presses a kiss on her forehead and breathes her in; feels _awake_ for the first time in months.

Her breath is warm on his neck, a hitch to it he recognises from that night in her car, when he touched her hand with his and held on tight. "No more rain?" she asks softly.

He smiles, and wants to laugh, wants to never let go again. "No." Another kiss, this one longer than the first and just as necessary. "No more rain." 

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/312616.html>


End file.
